The Best of Men (82 page)

“You owe me five pounds, Digby,” she was saying; she did not look in the least unhappy.

“How disappointing – I thought it a sure bet that he would come,” said Digby. “Are you unwell, my dear?”

“I feel indigested, after that revolting goose we ate.”

“I hope it is not your quartain sickness. You always say that your food tastes odd when it comes over you.”

“I have no fever. But would you bring me a glass of spirits to settle my stomach?”

“At once,” Digby told her, with a sweet affection that Laurence had not heard from him before. “Wait here on this bench.”

Digby returned towards the hall, stopping occasionally to bow or exchange a greeting, while she sat staring ahead, motionless. Laurence crept out and sat beside her, though not too close.

She turned to look at him, a fierce glitter in her eyes, as brilliant as the jewels round her neck. “I knew you were here.”

“You lost faith in me, didn’t you,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t I? In a whole month while you were supposedly with your father, all that I received from you was a single, most unsatisfactory letter.”

“If I had time I could tell you what kept me away, but in part it was because of what I had to do for Falkland. When I came back to your house, you refused to see me. And I did write to you again, after that.”

“Another literary masterpiece,” she said scornfully.

“I know, I’ve got no talent for expressing my feelings on paper,” he confessed.

She seemed temporarily mollified; then her face hardened again. “Such fun you must be having with Wilmot. Digby says he’s quite the bawd. And Oxford is a gentleman’s paradise nowadays.”

“You know none of that means a thing to me!” he retorted.

She rose abruptly, picked up her skirts, and rushed off into the darkness.

He followed and grabbed her by the shoulder, twisting her around. “I love you, Isabella, but I can’t go on loving in vain! If there’s no hope, then for God’s sake say so.”

She was fumbling to unclasp her necklace, and when it came free she attempted to throw at him. He stayed her hand; she was panting, as though she had run a great distance.

“Will you marry me?” he asked, tightening his grip as she tried to pull away from him.

“What a question! Or are you being deliberately cruel?”

“If you’ll have me, I’m yours – and no one else’s.”

She was frowning at him with the same hostile mistrust. Unable to contain himself, he seized her and kissed her, almost roughly at first, until she relaxed against him and opened her mouth to his; and they stayed locked together for some time.

Then she tilted back her head and whispered, “Help me with this
necklace, Beaumont.” She held it about her throat and turned for him to fasten it, which he did with trembling fingers. “Digby’s back,” she said next, peering towards the terrace. “I must go to him. Call at my house tomorrow, and I promise I shall receive you – warmly.”

He kissed her again before releasing her, and she walked slowly up to the terrace, a hand over her mouth, as though nauseated.

Digby held out a little glass to her as she came closer. “My dear, where were you?” Laurence heard him ask.

“I went into the bushes – I thought I was about to be sick. I can’t drink it, Digby,” she added, refusing the glass. “Just take me home. I want an early night.”

“Yes, yes,” Digby said, squinting for a second in Laurence’s direction, and gave her his arm; and the two of them were swallowed by the crowd.

Still bursting with ungovernable energy, Laurence retreated to pace the streets around the College and run over in his mind every word of his conversation with Isabella. After an hour or so of this, he knew that he absolutely could not wait until the next day to see her.

He sped towards her house, but as he was approaching her door, someone seized his collar, and a cold object was rammed against his temple. “Hello there, Mr. Beaumont,” said a voice.

“Hello, Captain Milne,” said Laurence.

“Did you think I’d forgotten about that night you cheated me?”

There were four or five others in the shadows, two of whom Laurence knew from the Blue Boar: the card players, Ruskell and Pickett. “What are you doing here?” he demanded of Milne, remembering that Digby had paid the man to leave her alone. “And who told you I would be –”

“We’re going out to the fields, sir, to settle our dispute like gentlemen. If you object, however, I’ll put a ball in your skull right now. We brought you a sword in case you weren’t wearing one, as I see you’re not.”

“Most considerate of you,” Laurence said, as they marched him off at gunpoint. He felt aghast at the terrible irony of the situation: Milne could not know what an inept opponent he was.

A low fog hung about the meadows down by the river. The grass was pooled with water after all the rain, and their boots sank deeply into it as they walked. Bad terrain for a duel, Laurence thought, not that he had much chance on the driest of ground.

Milne tossed him the sword. “Put up your blade.” Laurence shook his head. “Or would you prefer a round of
primero
?” Milne asked snidely.

“Can’t you get it up?” Ruskell jeered.

Laurence had to raise the weapon. It was not the same as riding into battle, where confusion, smoke, and an enemy’s nerves could hide his poor swordsmanship, and as he had been warned, Milne was agile and skilful. They parried and feinted for a bit, to much comment from their audience, the clash of steel ringing out in the quiet of night. Then Milne wounded him on his sword arm.

“All your breeding and you handle your rapier worse than any ploughman,” Milne taunted him, dancing about, apparently unimpeded by the soggy turf. “Come at me! Come at me!” The blood from Laurence’s cut made his grip slippery, and he was slower than Milne, breathing hard. “Are you as clumsy with your cock?” Milne persisted. “All show and no action, aren’t you!”

Laurence managed to dodge a few more thrusts, but Milne delivered a serious slash to his shoulder, the blade entering and withdrawing like a shaft of flame. From Milne’s expression, nearly demented with pleasure, he knew that the man would kill him, and the thought of dying such a ridiculous death infuriated him. As Milne paused, guard momentarily down, no doubt preparing to utter another insult, Laurence jerked up his sword, intending to point it at Milne’s throat and demand an end to the fight. Yet he was too clumsy,
after all: instead he caught Milne on the side of the neck. Blood shot out as if from a fountain.

Milne exclaimed aloud, dropping his sword, and fell. Laurence tossed aside his, also, and went down on his knees, clapping both hands to the wound. Milne’s body had started to judder. As for the friends, they were running away, melting into the fog. The flow of blood gradually stopped spraying in Laurence’s face, and pulsed more dully through his fingers. Wincing with pain, he stripped off his doublet and pressed it to Milne’s neck, knowing as he did so that the man was past help and that he himself had to disappear.

He rose and pulled the drenched garment over his good arm, buttoning it to form a makeshift sling. Dawn began to break as he retraced his steps to Isabella’s house, and hammered on the door with his free hand.

“Who is it?” said Lucy, from within.

“Lucy, let me in,” he yelled, and this time she did. She gave a shriek on seeing him.

“What’s the matter, Lucy?” Isabella called, from upstairs.

“It’s Mr. Beaumont and he’s – he’s almost dead!”

“No I’m not,” said Laurence, as Isabella hurried down.

“Oh my God, Beaumont, who did this to you?” She drew him in and lowered him into a chair. “Where are you hurt?” Helping him off with his doublet, she tore away his shirt to view the wounds: a gash on his right arm, below the muscle of his shoulder, and in the shoulder itself a wider, more profound incision. “You’ve lost so much blood!”

“Most of it isn’t mine. Bring bandages, and hot water. And a needle and some strong thread. I could do with some liquor, too.”

When she and Lucy returned, she went to work immediately, washing away the blood with a cloth that became redder each time she applied it. “With whom did you fight?”

“Milne.”

“That can’t be! Digby sent him off.”

“Apparently not far enough. He was waiting for me outside your house.”

“I hope you served him as well as he did you.”

“I killed him.”

“Oh no! Beaumont, that’s dreadful!”

“I can assure you, it wasn’t my intention,” he said, taking a swig of liquor.

“I am not sorry for
him
, I am worried for
you
! Did anyone witness the fight?”

“About half a dozen of his friends.”

“Dear Jesus! All of Oxford must know by now. Should I bandage you?”

He shook his head, with difficulty since the pain was now spreading upwards from his shoulder. “The cuts have to be stitched.”

“I’ll send Lucy for a surgeon.”

“You can sew, can’t you?”

“I can try,” she said bravely, but as she began, she was shaking and overly tentative. He had to guide her, insisting that she dig the needle further in and pull the thread tighter. By the end, she seemed about to faint.

“You did very well,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Now for the bandages.” This she was accomplishing more speedily, when they heard loud noises outside.

“Open up, Mistress Savage!” came a stern order. “Open now, or we shall break down the door.”

“What should I do?” Lucy gasped.

“Nothing for it but to answer,” Laurence said, nearly laughing at the hopelessness of it all, and on Isabella’s command Lucy opened, to a troop of soldiers.

“Mr. Beaumont,” one of them said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Captain Milne.”

“Can’t you see he is wounded?” Isabella cried, as they hauled him out of the chair. “Let him be!” Then Laurence heard another voice at the entrance, and he realised instantly what trap had been set for him that night, though he could see from Isabella’s face that she did not yet understand.

The Secretary of State strolled in, with the air of a guest invited to a surprise party thrown for his benefit. “Isabella, my darling, I must apologise for my sudden entrance! Release her and sit him down,” he told the men. “How grievously are you hurt?” he inquired of Laurence.

“Not as grievously as Milne. You were behind this, weren’t you, my lord.”

Isabella moved nearer to Laurence, as if to shield him. “Digby, that can’t be true!”

“You may wait outside,” Digby commanded the soldiers. When they had left, he beamed at Isabella. “You
do
owe me that five pounds. I knew Mr. Beaumont would show himself at the banquet – though sneakily, so as not to encounter me – and I gave you both what I believed was sufficient time in the dark to rediscover your fondness for each other. I also anticipated that after such a prolonged drought, Mr. Beaumont would seek to refresh his thirst for you as soon as possible, and in a more private location. And Captain Milne, who I’m sure we all considered ultimately dispensable, was overjoyed to accept the errand on which I sent him. He had been yearning to exact vengeance, though I hear from his friends it was a far closer thing than I had predicted, and I
am
sorry about that,” he said to Laurence. “Sir, you have committed a crime punishable by death. A tribulation for you, though not for our gallant Captain Milne.”

“You were not above duelling yourself in the past,” Isabella told him angrily.

“And got myself imprisoned for it once, as a young man. But I did not kill my opponent – indeed, I disarmed him. And we were not at war, as we are now, when sterner measures are required to stamp out such unruly behaviour.”

“Digby, you will not allow him to suffer for this.”

“It is the law, Isabella. Do you think me above the law?”

“You
are
the Secretary of State!”

“My dear, you tear at my heartstrings! How can I oppose the arrows of Cupid, when even the gods are impotent against them? But the truth is,” he went on to Laurence, beaming again, “I told His Majesty about your refusing my offer of employment, and he thought it most ill-advised that I should lack such a good man to assist me. So here we are. You need a favour, which I admit I have the power to grant, if you will only be persuaded to revoke your decision. No need to answer straight away. I shall come tomorrow to see how the patient is faring,” he said to Isabella. “Nurse him well. Oh – there’s a guard on the house, just in case. Mr. Beaumont is precious to both of us now.” And he bowed to them and sauntered out.

On the following day, which had turned sunny and hot for the end of September, Laurence was sitting in the back garden reading an issue of
Mercurius Aulicus
when Digby appeared. “Entertained by the product of my genius?” he asked.

“Somewhat more than I was yesterday,” Laurence said, with a smile.

“Always a joker! One of the many things I like about you, sir. Well, have you reviewed your options?”

“I don’t believe you gave me any, as I could have told you then.”

“How are your cuts?”

“Sore, but tolerable.”

“Then it would not tire you, to receive some company?”

Again he gave Laurence no alternative, for Isabella had emerged from the house with Prince Charles and Dr. Earle.

“Don’t disturb yourself, Mr. Beaumont,” the Prince said, as Laurence was about to rise. “You know,” he added, grinning, “we never finished our discussion of Thucydides – do you remember?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Laurence replied.

“I hope we can do so, at some future date.” The Prince appraised Isabella with his large, dark eyes. “Madam, may we speak alone with him?”

“Certainly,” she said, and left them.

“Dr. Earle has explained what you accomplished for my father and for me, in the matter of the conspiracy,” the Prince said to Laurence. “I must thank you. My father was also delighted to hear that you have accepted to work with our new Secretary of State.” Laurence gave Digby a sideways glance but said nothing. “How enchanting Mistress Savage is,” the Prince observed next. “I should not mind being wounded if I could have a woman such as her ministering to
my
every need.”